June
by WhatsWithLuna3
Summary: 'Your Boy Who Lived is touched in the head, did you know that.' 'Harry,' she said through gritted teeth, 'is not touched in the head.' Guilt had, after all, a funny way of worming its way into one's life and dragging them down until the only way back up was to swallow it like a pill. DM/HG. WIP! Mild language and somewhat mature themes but not really.
1. 10 months ago

hey guys! so this is something i've been working on for a while now instead of studying for my exams hihihihihihi but whatever, it's chill. i'm still not sure how long it's gonna be but i have the first like nine chapters figured out so i'm on a good track. WARNING: there are some topics in here that may be sensitive to some of you and if i offend anyone please let me know, but please also keep in mind that what is said by the characters does not always reflect my own opinions and thoughts :)

DISCLAIMER: all characters and settings and whatnot belong to J.K. Rowling. merely borrowing.

also, this fic is dedicated to Hiba. you're literally the greatest beta anyone could wish for and i couldn't have written this without your suggestions and fangirling moments that made me think like, "okay yeah so this is fine". lmao love you to bits 3

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'Your _Boy Who Lived_ is touched in the head, did you know that?'

She shut her eyes and heaved a frustrated sigh. She could recognize that voice anywhere. That slimy, frosty, fuck-all voice. It almost made her physically sick hearing him talk here, in these circumstances.

' _Harry_ ,' she said through gritted teeth, turning to him, 'is not _touched in the head_.' She had her arms crossed over her chest with a face that quietly dared him to contradict her. He always accepts the challenge.

'That's not what I'm seeing.' He lifted a finger lazily and pointed at Harry.

Harry had sat up in his bed and was playing with his fingers. He counted them, one by one, and chuckled delightedly when he got to ten. Then he started over, bending over so that his face was hidden and his voice was reduced to a mutter. He seemed unaware that two people were watching him, one sadly, one disgustedly, and nodded absently when his mouth slacked and let a bubble of saliva dribble out. He was lost in his own little world, a world where his fingers were not ten unless he counted them, where other people were invisible, where a war had not just destroyed his other world.

She regarded her best friend sadly. She reached over and, with a tissue, wiped away the saliva from Harry's chin. He glanced up at her once, smile crookedly, then go back to counting his fingers. She could only smile back.

'Not touched in the head, eh?' said Malfoy. 'Right. And I'm a Thestral.'

'Leave him alone,' she snapped. She narrowed her eyes at him. 'Go bother someone else.'

'No,' he said, settling down in the chair meant for visitors. 'You see, Granger, as you may already be aware, there is no one in this whole bloody hospital who even remotely tolerates me. In fact, as I was looking for the coffee shop, I heard at least six people mumbling something about hexing me if I went for the last Pumpkin Pasty. Potter here, however,' he jutted his chin at the black-haired boy, 'is too fucked in the head to remember who I am. So as there is no immediate threat of being blasted in the balls, I think I shall stay here, thank you very much.'

She blinked at him. 'You have a huge manor all to yourself. Why don't you just go home?' She felt something warm against her hand, and looked down to see Harry interlacing their fingers. He clutched her hand tightly, lay his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. She felt her heart sink a little.

'Ever heard of _restlessness_ , Granger?' Malfoy drawled. 'And it's a bit hard to call that place a home after having housed the Dark Lord there for, let me see, seven months, wouldn't you agree?' His eyes fell on Harry, now fast asleep, still holding her hand. 'Besides,' he added smugly, 'the Healers said he likes me.'

'Only because he doesn't remember who you are,' she bit back.

'He saved my life,' Malfoy said shortly.

She could not find anything else to say after that. Carefully so as not to wake him, she slid her hand out of Harry's. She lingered a little and gently stroked his cheek, then moved away from the bed. She beckoned Malfoy to follow her. 'Come outside.' He rolled his eyes but complied.

Once outside, she glared at him so viciously, he was sure she was burning a hole in his forehead. Finally, the glare slid off her face as she sighed exasperatedly. 'I can't make you leave, can I?'

He started, shocked at her calmer disposition, then smirked. 'Nope.'

'Fine.' She seemed to contemplate something, biting her lip, then she took a step forward and poked him hard in the chest with her wand. 'But if I see you trying to hurt Harry,' she said lowly, 'I swear to God, Malfoy, I will make your balls shrivel and fall off _and then make you eat them_.'

'Jesus, Granger,' he muttered, pushing her wand away, 'I have morals.'

Her eyes widened and she let out a hysterical laugh. ' _Morals_? That's a joke, right?'

'Well, I wouldn't hurt a mentally handicapped, that's just cowardice.'

'Whatever,' she spat, flinching at his obvious choice of words.

A small group of people with a Healer walked past them right then, the Healer casting Silencing Charms on the rooms. Hermione turned her head to see them pass and smiled politely. Malfoy did not do the same, but she noticed out of the corner of her eye how he had tensed slightly and was eyeing the door to Harry's wistfully. Before she could think, she heard the group muttering to each other.

'The Malfoy boy,' said one wizard grumpily.

'What's _he_ doing here?' said another, throwing the blond man a dark look.

'Hiding from justice, clearly,' replied one witch. 'Decided to hide behind those he hurt to avoid Azkaban.' She hummed coldly. 'That's a new low, even for _him_.' She said the last words louder than the rest, and Hermione noticed how the witch's hand was itching towards her pocket where, presumably, her wand was stashed.

Hermione's mouth had opened a little in shock, and her brows were brought down in a scowl. Of course, she expected nothing less from these people, but nevertheless, it surprised her. Harry had saved Malfoy. Granted, it resulted in Harry being… ill, but him saving the blond twat surely meant something. It meant Harry believed in redemption, perhaps. Second chances. Couldn't they respect their precious Chosen One's principles? Fucking hypocrites, the lot of them.

'May I go back inside now, Granger?' Malfoy said now, shifting uncomfortably. The group had disappeared around the corner along with the Healer, who had not spared either of them a glance as she cast the Silencing Charms.

Hermione nodded solemnly and he retreated into the room without hesitating.

It was nearly midnight, three hours later, when she entered Harry's room to find Harry fast asleep, curled up like a child in his bed, and Malfoy sprawled in the visitor's chair, snoring softly. She did not know whether to smile or cry.

/

Hermione was on the ground. Her wand lay by her feet but she could not get up. Her leg was torn at the shins and knee and she was sure her ankle was broken. She watched the blood pool out of her leg and gather around it to form a large puddle and she felt sick. As she bit her tongue to keep from screaming in pain, she wondered whether wandless magic would heal her leg or at least allow her to get up and grab her wand. She tried moving but the pain shot straight up from her ankle and reached her throat with a sudden force and drew blood in her mouth as she dug her teeth further into her tongue and could only groan. Away from her the battle was still raging on. Spells shot all around her but for some reason they weren't touching her. Red and green and yellow sparks exploded above her head, blinding her, but the heat and the spell effects stayed away from her, so that the only sensation she felt was one shooting up from her bleeding leg and twisted ankle.

Then suddenly she was standing. Her wand was still on the ground. She tried picking it up but her arm was heavy and tired and her hand refused to close around the wand. Her fingers felt rusty and broken and as much as she tried they would not cooperate with her. Her entire body was, she noticed, stiff. What the hell was happening to her?

' _Hermione!'_ Her name was screamed with such desperation she felt herself flinch violently at it. She tried to turn around to find whoever had called her, but the same heaviness she felt in her arms had spread throughout her entire body so that it refused to turn around. She was, in other words, paralyzed and she began to panic. _'HERMIONE!'_

'What?' she screamed back. 'Who are you?'

' _Hermione!'_

'Harry?' she cried. The spells had stopped all of a sudden. There was no one else around her. It had gone completely quiet. All she could hear was her own desperate shouting for answers. 'Ron?' She started sobbing. ' _Harry? Ron?'_

' _HERMIONE, HELP ME!'_

'Harry, where are you?' She willed her feet to move but they dragged along the dusty ground as heavy as anchors. She struggled with her arms, shaking them, hoping to get the blood moving into them. They, too, remained stuck against her frozen body. Her heartbeat was threatening to engulf her in its loud _thuds_ as she looked around at the empty battlefield. There was no moon, no stars, no smoke. Just a dark courtyard. Even her wand had disappeared. The blood still pooling at her feet, she wondered if this was how she was going to die. 'Harry! Ron! _Harry!_ '

' _HERMIONE LOOK OUT!'_

With a sudden rush of adrenaline she forced her head to turn to the left but the force knocked her back to the ground. Her chin bashed against the ground, rattling her head and sending pain shooting up to her brain. She grimaced at the headache and groaned. Her hands and chest landed in her blood. She felt the slick liquid stick to her. She didn't care. Harry was being hurt somewhere and she couldn't help him. ' _HARRY! HARRY WHERE ARE YOU?'_

And then he was there. Harry was being held in the air by an unknown force and he was screaming. He writhed and shook and foamed as his arms bent to the his back and his legs bent up and left and right at awful angles. His glasses had disappeared and his eyes had rolled back to reveal the whites. His mouth gaped horribly with blood dripping down his chin.

She watched in horror as Harry was being tortured by an unknown assailant. The silence had been shattered by a combination of his strangled screams and her loud sobbing. ' _HARRY!'_ She tried pushing herself up to no avail. The heaviness was pushing her to the ground like a paperweight. _'Stop! Please stop!'_

That was when she spotted Draco Malfoy. He stood a few meters away from them and was simply watching the scene of Harry's torture with a twisted expression of guilt and horror. 'Malfoy,' she sobbed, her eyes screwed shut so as to avoid looking at Harry's twisted body, ' _Draco_ , _please_.' She did not notice he, too, did not have a wand. She needed someone to help Harry. She could not have Harry die on her. She could not watch him die. She would not. ' _MALFOY_!'

'Ever heard of _restlessness_ , Granger?' he said quietly, coming closer. Wait, where had she heard him say that before? But before she could answer, momentarily thrown off from his voice, she felt herself being sucked into the ground, like a vacuum, until the air was cut off from her throat. The heaviness like sand in her body pulled her down down down and everything went dark.

/

Hermione shot up in bed with a yell. Her cheeks were wet with sweat and tears and she could taste blood in her mouth; she had bit her tongue and lips in her sleep again. Nightmares were not a rare occurrence for her. For someone who fought in a war and had seen innumerable counts of horrors, it was hard not to have flashbacks of those days. And the nightmare of Harry being _crucio_ 'd was the one she experienced the most out of all the horrible dreams she had. Of course she had to go through it again every night; she'd been there and she'd been unable to help him. It was guilt, she was smart enough to know that. Guilt that kept her up, that formed her dreams, that made every day heavier and heaver. Guilt had, after all, a funny way of worming its way into one's life and dragging them down until the only way back up was to swallow it like a pill.

She thought back to the night of Harry's descent into irreversible madness. It wasn't hard to do; the nightmares were very accurate in detail. The pain in her body and the animal-like sounds being torn from her best friend, his shaking body, his foaming mouth, it twisted her chest and made bile rise in her throat. But there was something different about the dream tonight. Never before had she seen Malfoy in it. It had always been only her and Harry, fighting for each other in the darkness of her scarred mind. Tonight, though, she'd encountered Malfoy, and she didn't know what to think of it. She remembered his expression of horror from that night, the shock of Harry's sacrifice, the fear of war and desertion, all combined on his dirty face. She remembered his confusion as to why Harry had pushed him away, the realization dawning on him when he'd seen her on the ground, and the unforeseeable anger that enveloped him as he watched Harry Potter be tortured to insanity by Dolohov.

She shuddered. Her sheets and pyjamas were soaked through. Deciding not to think about the nightmare or Harry anymore, she set about changing her sheets and night clothes and once finished she _accio_ 'd a glass of Dreamless Sleep potion from the kitchen, drank it, and climbed back into bed. And as she drifted into a dreamless sleep she wondered just how much guilt resided within Draco Malfoy, and if it dragged him down, too, to the point where he needed only to close his eyes to revisit the battlefield and the sounds of a never ending war.

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read and review? let me know your thoughts! WhatsWithLuna3


	2. 9 Months ago

DISCLAIMER: all rights belong to J.K. Rowling

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' _Live with us_?' Ron's red angry face was inches away from hers. She could smell his cologne and the familiar scent of the Burrow. 'That fucking _albino_ ferret has to _live with us_? _Why the fuck did you agree to this, Hermione_?'

She closed her eyes. 'The Healers said –'

'The _HEALERS?_ ' roared Ron. 'If the Healers had told you to jump off a cliff and dance around naked – _would you have done that, too_?'

'Ron,' she argued, but again he cut her off.

'Hermione, I won't share a flat with a conceited, egotistical, elitist _fuckface_ who can't tell left from right. I _won't_.'

'I'm right behind you, Weasel-face,' Draco sneered from the bench.

'I am not talking to _you_ ,' snapped Ron without looking away from Hermione.

'Ron, just be reasonable,' she pleaded, looking from Draco to Ron. The former raised his eyebrows calmly. 'Harry needs us. He needs,' she took a deep breath, 'Malfoy, too. He likes him.'

'Likes him – Hermione,' spluttered Ron, 'Harry is here _because of him_!'

'I know. But Harry's here for a greater reason, Ron. Harry knew that by saving him, Malfoy would be allowed a chance to redeem himself. And you know Harry and second chances.' When Ron refused to answer, she lay her hand on his arm. 'Please listen to reason, Ron. The Healers say it'll do well for Harry to have familiar faces around.'

'And familiar faces means _Draco Malfoy_.'

'Yes. He's the last person Harry saw before – you know.' Before Harry was tortured into madness. Before Harry became a puppet. Before Harry found staring into nothing and allowing his saliva to dribble down his chin a pleasant pastime.

Draco listened to their conversation silently and tried not to feel anything close to guilt. It was easy, considering all he'd been through, everything he'd seen. It was easy to dismiss anything that would result in him vomiting or trying to claw his brain out by finding faults and loopholes in the people he'd witnessed being tortured or killed, or in the people he'd personally tortured or killed. For example, the goblin the Dark Lord had presented to him as his first kill, Durnook, had once bumped into him at Gringott's when Draco was eleven and had yelled at him, calling him blind and stupid. Draco had used that as a fault to avoid the pain he felt after the green light disappeared in wisps of smoke and the goblin lay immobile at the Dark Lord's feet.

Now, listening to Weasley and Granger arguing over the Potter predicament, Draco listed Potter's faults, all the loopholes from the ten years Draco had known him. They all led him to the same, useless conclusion: he owed Potter.

Not that he hadn't known that to begin with. It was, of course, the only other reason why he stayed at St. Mungo's so much.

Suddenly Harry's Head Healer, Septimus Wistley, appeared in front of them, ending the battle between Ron and Hermione. Healer Wistley was taller than Ron, which proved to be an intimidating factor, along with his deep voice and rather thick hands. The only thing that made him look somewhat kinder were the thick-lensed glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose that, although magnifying his eyes, softened the rest of his face. Other than that, however, with his dark eyes, sturdy build, and a deep scar on the side of his forehead no bigger than the flat of one's thumb, Healer Wistley could have been mistaken for a recently-released Azkaban inmate.

'I have the forms that need to be signed, Miss Granger,' he said, and with a flick of his wand a blue file appeared in his hands. He handed it to Hermione. 'They are each color coded. The green ones are for the proprietor of the apartment to sign, as it concerns the splitting of the lease and guaranteeing that Mr. Potter is not financially involved due to his medical condition, as is stated under the Wizarding Constitution, section 231, paragraph 5.

'Then the red ones,' here the Healer lifted his eyes to look at Malfoy from above his thick-lensed glasses, 'are for the new _roommate_ ,' he said dispassionately, as though the idea of roommates seemed foreign and inappropriate to him. 'It guarantees that Mr. Malfoy is, first of all, legally bound to living in the same quarters as the patient, and, second of all, that Mr. Potter is Mr. Malfoy's legal responsibility, shared also between you and Mr. Weasley.' He nodded at Ron, who in turn glared at Draco. Draco merely yawned pointedly.

'Which brings us to the last two forms.' Healer Wistley reached over and pulled out two papers colored black and orange. 'The black one is for you, Miss Granger, and the orange one is for Mr. Weasley. They are for the residents of the apartment and binds them, too, to the legal responsibility of caring for Harry James Potter.

'I must inform you,' said Healer Wistley now watching the three adults rather dangerously, 'that if any of you violate the terms of the contracts in any way,' he looked at Draco as he said this, though so quickly, he could have just been pausing, 'you _will_ suffer the consequences. I don't care what you've done for the wizarding world during the war,' he crossed his arms, 'because, war heroes or not, _nobody_ has the right to violate the sovereignty and dignity of any St. Mungo's patient.' He paused. 'And those who do will have the law and the effects of violating a magical contract to face. Have I made myself very clear?' Healer Wistley looked ready to curse anyone who dared to disagree with his monologue. In fact, Hermione had the feeling the Healer was not unaccustomed to using Unforgivables, and this realization made her very uncomfortable.

'Yes, sir,' she said, looking down at the thick file, counting the number of contracts to read over and sign. There were six to read and six to sign, twelve forms in total.

'Good.' Healer Wistley flashed them a cold smile. 'You have until Wednesday.' Five days. He Disapparated.

There was a silence as Hermione went through the file. Ron was avoiding looking Draco directly in the eye while Draco was staring into space, deep in thought. Finally, Hermione broke the silence.

'Well,' she said, 'I suppose we better get started on these forms.' She handed the men their respective papers.

Ron frowned down at his, slowly reading the terms, silently mouthing the words. Draco took one bored glance at his, as though signing contracts that ensured legal responsibility of another human was something he did on a regular basis, and pulled out his wand and a Knut from his pocket. He transfigured the coin into an ink-dipped quill and quickly signed the paper.

'Done,' he said flatly.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. 'Already? Don't you understand the importance of this? This isn't something you can decide in a matter of minutes.'

'Granger,' he drawled sarcastically, 'do you want me to cut my hand and let my blood drip over my signature just so you'll believe me? I agree to the terms, I signed the bloody contract. I don't care what you think of me,' he added, sending her and Weasley a scowl, 'but a Malfoy has certain rules to abide. And one of them is to never let a debt go unpaid. Hence _the signing_ ,' he drawled. With that he handed her the contract. 'Excuse me now, I have a few things to pack.' And just like Healer Wistley, he Disapparated.

'Git,' muttered Ron, squinting at the spot where Draco disappeared. 'I'm going to Harry.' He, too, left, leaving Hermione alone.

Regarding her surroundings with sad pensiveness but without wanting to sit and think for too long, she decided it would be best to contact the owner of the flat she and Ron lived in to get the contract signed and done.

Sighing, she turned on the spot.

/

It hadn't been hard to get the owner of the flat she lived in to sign the papers.

'Anything for 'Arry Potter,' he'd said, grabbing the quill and signing eagerly. 'So 'e's sick, is 'e?' he added, skimming over the contract. 'What's 'e got, then?'

'Just an illness,' she'd said, smiling sweetly. The less people knew about Harry's condition, the better. The _Daily Prophet_ had kept quiet about it, so only those close to Harry – the Weasleys, Hermione, Malfoy – knew of him. Everyone else was kept in the dark. For good reasons.

''E wouldn't be pretending, would 'e?' The man laughed. 'Of course not, ''Arry bloody Potter, what am I thinking. 'Ere you go, sweetheart,' he said, giving her the documents back. 'Yer all set.'

'Thank you, sir,' she said, and Disapparated before he could change his mind.

/

When Hermione went back to St. Mungo's with the papers on Wednesday, she stopped by Harry's room before going to find Healer Wistley. As she opened the door, she already knew who else she would find inside at this time, just after two o'clock. It was just a feeling she got, and the fact that he'd been showing up in the Janus Thickey Ward since last month. So indeed it wasn't all that surprising to her when the door swung open and she saw Malfoy in the visitor's chair, pushed up against window. He was looking outside, his finger poised on his chin as though he was posing for an invisible artist. He looked, she noticed, less tense than he usually did. Maybe the wards calmed him, or at least Harry's ward, because he looked nearly peaceful. She cleared her throat.

Malfoy did not turn around. 'Hullo, Granger, come to stare?'

She scoffed. 'I've come to deliver the forms.'

'How punctual of you.'

'I'm an organized person, Malfoy.'

'I didn't say you weren't.' He turned to face her. She noticed the dark circles under his eyes. On his pale face they stood out quite strongly, and she thought back to her nightmare, one month ago. Maybe he, too, was kept away by the guilt she knew he felt. The guilt he _had_ to feel, given the amount of time he spent in Harry's ward, given his expression in her dream and memories. 'Granger, my eyes are up here.'

She blushed, then nodded at Harry, who was asleep and snoring lightly. 'Has he eaten?'

He shrugged. 'I came an hour ago. He was laughing at something outside then fell asleep once I started talking to him. I suppose they fed him earlier.'

'You talked to him?' she said, smiling slightly.

He rolled his eyes. ' _Yes_. Contrary to popular belief, Granger, I do have a sliver of humility within me. I talk to Potter on a regular basis. He can tell you himself. Once he's awake, that is.'

'What do you talk about?' she asked, her smile widening.

'None of your business, Granger, men's stuff,' he said with a smirk.

She scoffed again. 'Right, well, while you continue whining to Harry about how you're unable to find a spell to enlarge your microscopic balls, I'm going to find Healer Wistley.'

It was Malfoy's turn to scoff. 'The size of my balls are, much like the topic of mine and Potter's conversation, also none of your concern. Go find Healer Wistley, you're disturbing my train of thought.'

'I know a few spells if you're ever desperate,' she said stifling a laugh as she made her way to the door.

'I'll be sure to come to you. I'm sure you have experience in making small things bigger. Weren't you with Weasley until recently?'

'Fuck off, Malfoy.' She turned the handle.

'Granger.'

She turned to him again and raised her eyebrows. His voice had suddenly gone a decibel deeper, catching her off guard. 'What?'

Malfoy looked uncomfortable for a moment. He glanced around himself, as though nervous someone was eavesdropping, and ran his hand through his hair. 'Does Weasley know?'

Her heart skipped a beat. Know what? What did he mean? Her body beginning to shake, she swallowed and reminded herself to keep calm. He couldn't possibly know. 'Know what?' she said, hiding the slight tremor at the end of the sentence.

'You know.' He jutted his chin at Harry's sleeping form. 'Potter. How I,' he hesitated and pulled a grim face and coughed, embarrassed, it seemed, 'owe him and all.'

Hermione nearly sighed in relief. So he didn't know. Good. 'Yes, he does.'

'Then he knows he can't kill me once we live under the same roof.' A cold feeling in Hermione's chest evaporated when she saw him grin semi-maliciously. He was joking. 'Not only because I'd defeat him in a duel with my eyes closed but also because Potter _needs me_.'

'Right, Malfoy, and here I thought you were going to use the humility you said you had and agree to put your differences aside for Harry's sake,' she said with a laugh she only had to force a little bit.

'How little you know me, Granger,' he said and went back to looking out the window. The peaceful expression had returned to his face, and she couldn't help but admire it for a few moments as she stood by the door, propping it open with her foot. She wondered if this was what it was going to be like, living with him. If he was going to be tolerable as he was right now. Maybe he really was going to make an effort to be nice, or at least to not be as big of a jackass as before. Maybe guilt changed people in ways other emotions couldn't.

Then something within her clicked and the moment passed. As reality came crashing back down on her, she remembered where she was and what she was doing. Staring at Draco Malfoy wondering if guilt had turned him into a better person. In Harry Potter's ward for permanent spell damage. She was being silly. Completely fucking silly.

'I have to go.' With that, she left the room. When she left, Malfoy turned back to the spot she had stood in and stared at it. He rolled their conversation around in his head and, recalling how she'd defended him in front of Weasley the other day, he momentarily wondered if, like the Boy Who Lived, the war had torn Hermione Granger to shreds, too.

/

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read and review? xx WhatsWithLuna3


	3. 8 months ago

thanks to those who read and reviewed! you rock :)

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'Weasley, for Christ's sake, have you never carried a sofa up three flights of stairs?' Draco's face was pale but determined as his back faced the entrance to the apartment and his arms hurt from carrying the couch up the stairs at a dangerous and uncomfortable angle.

'Shut up,' grunted Ron. His face was so red it seemed almost purple, and his arms were straining.

'Well, for one thing, you're supposed to hold it from _under_ the damn chair so you get a _good fucking grip_.' Draco suddenly heaved his shoulders and hoisted the sofa into a more stable position. This move, however, caught Ron off-guard and his grip slipped. Before Draco could yell so much as _fucking watch it_ , Ron's end of the sofa collided with the floor with a loud _bang!_ and Ron slammed backwards into the wall.

'Weasley!' barked Draco. He let his own hold on the sofa loosen and his end fell too. 'Fucking useless piece of –'

' _Me_? _You_ were the one who –'

'– can't even carry a _sofa_ –'

'I _could_ if you weren't such a _prat_ –'

'Boys!' Hermione was behind Ron on the stairs, holding a cardboard box filled with books. Harry was next to her, fiddling with a pillow he was carrying. He was mumbling something to himself, smiling. She frowned at the scene, at the couch on the floor and at the two men scowling disgustedly at each other and gave an impatient huff. 'You're blocking the stairway.'

'We wouldn't be if _someone_ hadn't acted like the insufferable know-it-all ass he is,' menaced Ron.

'Weasley, if I already _am_ the "insufferable know-it-all ass" you claim me to be, I wouldn't have to _act_ like one, it would be redundant.'

'Shut up, Malfoy.'

'Just putting some logic into your words is all.'

'Well, fuck you.'

Draco lay a hand on his heart and sighed dramatically. 'Oh, how you wound me, Weasley.'

' _Focus_ ,' hissed Hermione. She barged past him and unlocked the door to the flat. 'I really don't understand why you insisted on bringing _your_ sofa to our apartment,' she said as she walked inside, Harry blindly following her like a puppy. 'We already have one and it's only going to occupy space, and the apartment is small enough as it is.'

Draco shot Ron a cold look before pulling out his wand. He muttered an incantation and the sofa shrunk to the size of his palm. He picked it up and brought it into the apartment. 'It's my home now, too, Granger. Probably should have my own shit in here, you know, to make it – what do you call it – _homey_. What do you think? Also,' he added distastefully, 'what you have is not a _couch_. It's a flea-infested stack of cushions on a wooden platform. I thought I should add something convince people we don't live like tramps.'

Hermione rolled her eyes but did not reply. She set the box down.

Ron stared at Draco and the tiny sofa in his hand in furious disbelief. ' _Couldn't you have done that downstairs?_ ' he seethed, slamming the door shut behind him.

Draco had placed the couch in front of the muggle appliance Hermione called the "television" and restored it to its original size. He plopped down onto it and stretched. 'Weasley, use your brain for once, given that our dear God had the decency to give you one. I couldn't have transformed it downstairs in front of all the Muggles, now could I?' He smirked thinly as Ron spluttered to come up with an answer. 'That's what I thought.'

'Hermione,' Ron began to whine but Harry cut him off.

'Ron–Ron, your room is _big_.' Harry's glasses were askew on his happy face, and he was clutching Ron's sleeve like a child. Ron chuckled shortly.

'You'll be sleeping in that room, too, mate,' he said.

Harry's face lit up even more, if it was possible. Then he spotted Draco and giggled. ' _Drraccco_ ,' he slurred and slumped his way over to the blond wizard.

Draco gave him a tight smile and shifted on the sofa to make room for him. Harry clambered onto the couch and nestled himself against the arm, holding it unnecessarily tight with both arms. He looked at Draco. 'Are you staying here as _weeeeell?_ '

'That's right, Potty.' Draco could see Ron shooting him a dirty glare at the sound of the nickname, but he ignored him. Harry giggled. 'I'll be in the room across Granger's.'

'Hermione,' corrected Ron quickly.

'Hermione,' repeated Harry as an after-thought. He lay his head against his arm and let his mouth slack. Saliva dribbled onto the sofa fabric.

'Potter, stop that,' said Draco nervously. He eyed the wet spot uneasily, then glanced at Ron, who shrugged, his discomfort as evident as Malfoy's.

'Um,' Ron shifted on his feet. He cleared his throat. 'Harry, mate, don't do that.'

'Do what?' Hermione was back. She wiped her sweaty forehead, looking from Ron to Draco. 'What's he done? Has he wet himself? The Healers said that might happen.'

Draco shuddered and Ron gaped at her, his eyes widening. Hermione scoffed. 'What? Have you never taken care of a _child_? Don't you want to be _fathers_ some day? Doesn't it strictly say in the Malfoy Handbook that you need to procreate?' she added to Draco, who merely rolled his eyes.

'Relax, Granger. Your precious Potter is simply drooling on the fucking sofa like a dog.' He jutted his head in Harry's direction. Harry paid him no attention. He was staring off into space, his tongue running along his bottom lip.

'Jesus, you're getting worked up about _that_?' Hermione pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped Harry's mouth with it. He grinned up at her. 'That's the least of our worries.'

'What do you mean?' said Ron, clenching his shoulders together.

'I mean I'm worried he's going to wet himself at night. He did so quite frequently at Mungo's.' Hermione cast Harry a sad look. She reached out and ran her hand fondly through his hair, stroking his head and the area behind his ears.

'Shit,' Draco heard Ron say. 'Well, can't we avoid that?'

'And how do you suggest we do that?' Draco mocked, turning around. 'Condition him not to? Curse him every time he pisses his pants?'

'No,' countered Ron, his ears turning red. 'I meant like, use magic or something, I don't know. Hermione?'

Hermione pursed her lips. 'There isn't any spell that prevents people from soiling their pants, Ron,' she said dryly. 'However, if you would like to come up with one, be my guest. It would prove very useful.'

Draco smirked. He rather enjoyed hearing Granger and Weasley bicker. It was like a show to him, something very entertaining that only he could watch, as the honored guest. He liked it especially when it got violent or heavy, because then they'd start shouting and screaming and throwing hexes and objects at one another, and they'd forget all about him. He could watch in peace, quietly enjoying the fight that, for once, did not include him. It'd already happened plenty of times at St. Mungo's, in Potter's room, in the cafeteria, even once in a public toilet at Hyde Park, where they'd taken Potter for a walk in the sun. Weasley had said something to Granger and she got pissed as hell and dragged him to the nearest public toilet where they'd fought like hyenas over a carcass. He'd listened in from outside with Potter by his side staring at the birds flying overhead.

But Ron had no intention of fighting right now, he could tell. 'It's fine,' he said stiffly. 'I'll just show Harry our room now.'

'You have to dress the bed,' Hermione told him, moving to the bookcase near the window. 'The mattress is set up but you need to put the sheets on and everything.'

'Right. Harry, want to see your bed?' Ron went into the hall and Draco heard him disappear into the last room at the end of the corridor, the biggest room with the maroon door.

The flat was not small as Granger had earlier remarked, but it was not so big as to call it luxury housing. The front door opened to the space known as the living room. There was no door to separate it from the hall. It had the ugly excuse for a couch shoved to the side, Draco's dark green one now placed in the middle of the room facing the television, and two large windows that gave a rather plain view to the street. There were bookshelves too, about six, spread around the room, all filled with books. There were some book piles as well, by the television, the windows, on the coffee table near the other couch. They were stacked neatly and seemed to be organized differently, Draco noted.

The bathroom, on the other hand, was just big enough for a toilet, a sink two steps away, and a shower shoved into the corner. Two people would not have been able to fit in there unless one of them was willing to stand in the shower.

His room was next to the bathroom. It had initially been a study, with a desk and _big important chair_ facing the window that gave view to the trees and windows of the buildings across. The desk and chair were replaced with a single bed, a nightstand, and a wardrobe. His bed and nightstand were shoved against the wall on the far end, the window behind them, and the wardrobe on the side. There was just enough space between wardrobe and bed to stand and undress. Other than that, it was empty. No bookshelves or armchair or shelves on the wall. The emptiness and gloominess of his room had made him squirm the first time he'd seen it, two weeks ago. Excluding the fact that he was used to huge rooms and, overall, a huge manor, the sight of the room and the prospect of him having to live there for God knew how long made him feel awkward and claustrophobic, like he was intruding on something personal that could never belong to him. Even now, as Weasley and Potter were in their room and Granger was unpacking boxes, Draco felt closed in. His room depressed him so much and he hadn't even fully moved in yet. He decided he'd stay away from it and keep to the living room until it was absolutely necessary he go to bed.

He watched Granger now. She was on the floor opening the boxes he'd brought from Malfoy Manor, pulling the contents out. They were mostly books, old and new ones, and she read the covers with mild interest before setting them down on the floor in piles. He didn't quite know why she was unpacking for him, but he decided to keep quiet. Besides, he hated unpacking.

'We could put up a shelf in your room, if you'd like,' she said now, staring at the pile.

Draco shrugged and said nothing, picking up a book from one of Granger's piles on the coffee table. He read the blurb on the back with mild skepticism.

'Don't you have more books?' She looked at him. 'I'd expected you to have more.'

'Would you have wanted me to bring in the whole Malfoy library, Granger?' he said. 'I couldn't fit six Pygmy Puffs in that fucking bathroom even if I wanted to.'

'I was only wondering,' she replied defensively. 'Given your inflated ego I was expecting you to show off all the rare and ancient books you own.'

'Well, you were wrong.' He scowled at the title of the book in his hands. ' _"If This Is a Man_ ", what kind of books do you even _read_ , Granger?'

For some reason, her face flushed a deep pink. 'It's a good book.'

'It's not a textbook.' Draco smirked.

'We're not at Hogwarts anymore, and I read other books besides textbooks thank you very much.'

'It's _fiction_ ,' he said, looking at the back of the book. ' _Muggle fiction_.'

'It's not _fiction!_ ' she nearly screeched. 'I'll have you know it's an incredible book based on very real events.'

'"One of the few survivors of the Holocaust",' he read out from the blurb. 'The _Holocaust_ , what in the name of Merlin's asshole is that?' Draco held the book at arm's length away, as though he could decipher the title's meaning by squinting at it. He rolled the word back and forth in his head. _Holocaust_. It sounded vaguely familiar. He stopped. 'Isn't that the mass Muggle prison thing?'

Without a warning she reached over and snatched the book from out of his hands and scrambled to her feet. She clutched the book to her chest and glared dangerously at him. She looked quite nearly offended. 'You wizards could use a few lessons in Muggle Studies,' she snapped. 'It really wouldn't hurt considering what the Holocaust means to the Muggle world. Completely ignorant, the lot of you.'

Draco, deciding he liked it better with her unpacking his boxes for him, and figuring a response from him would only further aggravate her and motivate her to leave, held his tongue and stayed quiet, although her insults had annoyed him. It wasn't that he was ignorant. He simply didn't care. Or at least hadn't cared up until this point, where his curiosity piqued and he wondered what on earth the Holocaust was, given its strange and intriguing name. Much like a toddler, he only found himself interested in something after it had been made clear that he couldn't have it. So the minute Granger had grabbed the book out of his hands, he'd made it a goal to find it again and read it, just to spite her.

Meanwhile he watched her sit back down with the book still held tightly in her arm. She continued muttering something about Muggle Studies and wizards' ignorance as she continued to unpack his things. He noticed she would not put the book down, even as she struggled to open one of the boxes one-handed. In her left arm bent at her chest she struggled to maintain a hold of the book while the other hand resignedly grabbed her wand and opened the box via spell. She reminded him of a mother, a protective creature holding her beloved child away from the dangers of the big bad world. Normally, had it been a book like her sacred _Hogwarts: A History_ or a similar textbook, he wouldn't have found it all that strange to see Hermione Granger holding onto a book like a scared mother her child. But this was an ordinary book, any kind he could have picked up off the street, really, and given to her, and he had to admit that even for Hermione Granger, this was strange behavior.

'What are all these papers?' she asked suddenly, levitating a file of parchment to him. It landed on his lap and he regarded it lazily.

'Just some legal procedures,' he replied, dumping it onto the coffee table. 'Nothing important.'

'Legal procedures?' she said skeptically, leaning in to see.

He frowned at her unnecessary curiosity and nudged them away from her reach. 'Forget about it, Granger, they're none of your concern.'

'Well, if you need any help,' she began but trailed off as she saw him change expression.

'Oh yes, I'll be sure to ask you,' he said sarcastically, leaning back. 'I forgot you were the lawyer of the household.'

'I was only being nice,' she snapped. 'I'm sorry you can't see human _decency_.' She stood up, still holding the book, which Draco now imagined as a holy scripture that would burn if placed on the ground. He sized her up and noticed she was about a head shorter than him, which he found oddly curious. For a moment neither of them spoke, but she kept his gaze. It felt like a game. She held up her end, he held up his. But while she did so stoically, unwavering, he felt like he was slipping. There was something a little disturbing about the look in her eyes. Perhaps because they were so dark he couldn't see anything in them. No emotion, no hidden thought or intention. It unnerved him.

'You're making dinner tonight,' she said, turning away.

' _What?_ '

'Harry doesn't like fish, Ron hates broccoli, and I don't eat veal. Pots and pans are in the bottom drawer.' She grabbed a jacket from the coat hanger by the door. 'I'm going to see Ginny.' Then she Disapparated. She had taken the book with her.

And Draco was left alone. He could hear Weasley and Potter in their room on the other end of the flat, along with other voices he could not recognize and loud music. And the gloominess from his new room and his new life made his head throb, first lightly, then gradually heavier and heavier until he had to sit down and hold his head in his hands. It was only three o'clock.

/

* * *

A/n: _If_ _This Is a Man_ is the title of Jewish-Italian writer Primo Levi's memoir of his imprisonment in the Auschwitz concentration camp during WWII. " _One of the few survivors of the Holocaust_ " is taken from the Guardian's review of the book.


	4. 7 months ago

The night was not Draco Malfoy's friend. He hated every minute of it, and it hated him. The fact that he currently lived in a closet in a shabby apartment in Muggle London with a retarded boy and his two friends who could go weeks without speaking to each other did not help his insomnia.

He supposed he had the war to thank, though the war had been over a year ago. He supposed he had his parents to thank, who had both gone mad during the Final Battle and killed themselves somewhere in the Forbidden Forest after Potter had been _crucio'd_ into insanity. He supposed he had his loneliness and lack of friends to thank, but _that_ was just an assumption. He did not know whether _friends_ would have helped his situation, for he had never had many friends while growing up, so he would not have understood the concept, much like a rich man could not understand the concept of poverty, even if it danced naked in front of him.

Now, he supposed he could have done with some sleep if he tried hard enough, because sleep eventually _does_ come – it is impossible to evade sleep, even if one wanted to. He supposed simply closing his eyes and thinking of something _nice_ , as his mother had often said, would lull him into an albeit short-lived slumber. But there is something rather triumphant in knowing you can stamp something out by simply ignoring it. He had a certain power here, in that he could avoid sleep by simply staying awake. He knew what sleep did to him, he knew how merciless the night was. He was not a naïve simpleton who lived by the motto that every day is a new day, and therefore things will be different.

Draco Malfoy had lived enough lives to know that that was not true.

He looked at the time. It was three fourteen. He had gone to bed four hours, thirteen minutes, six seconds ago. For four hours, thirteen minutes, and six seconds he had lain awake in his crumby, tiny bed and counted the tiny bumps made by the paint on his plain white ceiling. So far he had reached six thousand thirty-two. That was not a lot.

He strained his ears now. There was no noise outside. No cars, no people. He supposed it was because the neighborhood was so fucking boring. Nothing happened during the day, so naturally one could not have expected anything exciting to happen during the night. It would have been a ridiculous notion. There was, of course, the occasional car, the occasional honking of a horn before lunch, maybe a dog barking here and there. Other than that, it was a quiet area, perfect for a group of people living alone with a mentally incapacitated boy.

He groaned. Not because he couldn't sleep – again, his choice – but because he was hungry. Dinner was eaten early in the _household_. Potter had to eat before seven because his bed time was eight o'clock and not a minute later, the Healer had threatened. So dinner was eaten at six-thirty, which meant that it had to be prepared at five forty-five. Then lunch had to be eaten at noon exactly, because Potter had to have his nap at two, leaving two hours for perfect digestion. But lunch at twelve meant cooking at eleven, and _God_ , now Draco had a headache.

The household's timetable was fucked up, in his most pleasant opinion, but none of the others would hear it. Obviously.

Granger was very strict about the schedule. If one was late for a mealtime, she would not wait for them. Potter was never late for any of the mealtimes, since he never spent any minute of the fucking day alone, so as long as Potter was at the table, the food was served, and that was that.

Draco had, obviously, missed dinner that day. It was _obviously_ because he had decided to forget about the six-thirty rule, and had been out at the park with a not-so-tiny bottle of vodka he was not allowed to keep at the apartment. No alcohol around Potter was one of the many iron-chained rules Granger had set the day he'd moved in. Basically he was living with a toddler, he'd said after she emptied his flask into the sink. She'd merely given him a smirk.

So long story short, Draco was starving. There were no snacks in the flat either, because Potter could easily find the snack, eat it all at once, vomit it out again, and ruin his appetite. (Draco had learned this the hard way by hiding a pack of Chocolate Frogs under his bed, and coming back to find Potter's face covered in chocolate and on all fours, vomiting on his carpet. Granger had, of course, given Draco hell for it.) His only choice was to cook something at this ungodly hour, because that was all that was available in the goddam fucking flat.

He got up without hesitating, stretching his back. The mattress he slept on was not uncomfortable, but lying on it without moving for four hours, sixteen minutes, fifty-two seconds can do something to a person's back. He grabbed his wand and opened the door. The hallway was dark and quiet. He muttered _Lumos_ and noticed absently that Granger's door was not closed properly. It was at a tiny angle, and Draco could faintly make out the outline of her carpet. He did not dwell on that for too long and moved smoothly to the kitchen.

He was caught off-guard when he found Granger in her plaid pyjamas at the table, poring over some papers with her head in one hand.

'Can't a man be alone for _once_ in this fucking apartment?' he hissed at her, moving towards the stove.

Granger jumped, then narrowed her eyes at his figure. 'I was here first, Malfoy, if _I'm_ what's bothering you then you can just go back to your room.' She sighed and leaned back. She scratched her head. 'Why are you so moody all the time? Hormonal issues can't be it, you'd have to be human to have those.'

Draco stared at her for a moment, then smirked. 'Oh, I see. You're inferring that I am, in fact, not human.' He walked back to her. 'Pray tell, Granger, since you're so smart, if I am not human, what am I? Perhaps a Nargle? Or a Dixie?'

'I was going to say a vile ferret, but now I'm thinking a combination of all three would be closer to what you look like.'

He frowned and laughed sarcastically. 'Early morning Granger is a funny one, I see,' he muttered. He went back to the stove and started opening cabinets. He found a packet of instant alphabet soup at the very front and seized it without thinking too much about it. He filled a pot with water and heated it with his wand, then poured the packet's contents into it and brought the pot to a boil.

'Why are you making soup?' he heard her ask.

'I'm hungry, what do you think?'

'Well, you could have had dinner with us.'

'I missed dinner,' he said through gritted teeth.

'I know you did. I'm rubbing it in.'

'Are you always this affectionate, Granger?' He sat across from her with his soup. He began to ladle some into his mouth, ignoring the fact that his tongue was instantly burned and his gums stung.

'Only at this hour,' she said, smiling sadly. 'Why are you awake?'

'Don't want to sleep,' he replied.

'You _can't_ sleep?'

'No, I _won't_ sleep. There's a difference, Granger.' He stopped eating and let his soup cool.

'Why won't you sleep?' She scowled incredulously. 'I'd give anything to sleep, and you're taking your tiredness for granted.'

'See,' Draco pointed his spoon at her, 'that's where you're wrong, Granger. _Anyone_ can sleep. You can't avoid it forever. Eventually you _will_ fall asleep, though you might not even notice it. Even those with insomnia are so caught up in the romanticism of their infliction that they'll vehemently shoot down anyone who contradicts them and says something like, "Well, actually, you were asleep for two hours there".' Draco spooned more soup. 'It's rather sad, but that's the truth.'

He watched as her eyes grew big and flushed. She had her upper lip curled in disgust and she regarded him like one regards an old used tissue. He smirked a satisfied smirk when she refused to open her mouth, even though her expression clearly read that she was dying to contradict him, and finished his food.

'I think you're wrong,' she said quietly a while later. She was not looking at him, but at her papers.

'Tough shit, Granger.'

'There are studies that show that those suffering from insomnia lack certain hormones that help with maintaining sleep,' she began, but slowly drifted off as she caught sight of the sky from the window in the living room. Her mouth slacked and her eyes slid halfway. She took a few deep breaths and let her eyes close for a few seconds. He thought she looked more troubled than peaceful, a state her expression would have suggested in any normal situation.

He glanced nervously at the window, at what she'd caught sight of, but found nothing. He sometimes woke up at night shaking, convinced he was being watched from outside or from somewhere in his miniature excuse for a room. Now was no different.

'Can I ask you something?' she said suddenly. Her eyes were open again and she was looking at him wearily. 'Do you think there's more to us than – this?'

He frowned, feeling something in his chest shift uncomfortably. He was no good at deep conversations. It's not that he didn't like them, he was just no good at them. He didn't like thinking philosophically because it exposed the harsh truth and reality of his life, his world, so he had a hard time coming up with intelligent answers or topics of conversation. He couldn't talk about death or dying because he'd seen the brutal reality and he hated it. He couldn't talk about living because he knew he had something others who fell during the War would have – ironically – killed to have. It depressed the fuck out of him.

But now he couldn't help but regard the young woman in front of him with pity. She was – he knew – just as fucked up as the rest of them. She didn't wet the bed like Potter or pretend everything was fine but wake up screaming like Weasley. She didn't glance over her shoulder every few minutes and expect Voldemort's red eyes to be watching her like Draco. But she was fucked up. Draco knew that. And that made him feel sorry for her. Because being fucked up yourself only makes you pity those who are just as troubled, because you pity yourself for being this pathetic. It was called _projection_ or some bullshit like that. He'd read about it somewhere.

'What do you mean, this?' he said carefully.

'This. Us. Our household,' she said, then sighed. 'I wonder if there's more or if this is it. If this is the rest of our lives.'

'You mean changing Potter's diaper every two hours,' he said, fiddling with his spoon.

She shrugged. 'Taking care of him. Living together.'

'I suppose you envisioned marrying Weasley and getting a house with a cat or some freckled, bushy-haired brats shitting their pants,' he said drily. To his surprise, she let out a snort of laughter. He found himself smirking. 'Am I right?'

'I was naïve,' she said defensively, though smiling. 'I thought, you know, after the Final Battle everything would sort itself out. I suppose I was convinced that after all the bad things, the good things would emerge.' She paused, frowning now. 'Clearly I was wrong.'

He let himself nod a few times, then stopped, swallowing a lump he'd had in his throat the last few minutes. He hadn't been like her. He'd known he was in trouble the minute the Dark Lord fell to the ground, dead. He'd known he was going to be rounded up, with all the others, and be locked in a damp, depressing cell in Azkaban, never to see the light of day again. He'd been nineteen, no room for loopholes or underage laws. It didn't matter to them that he'd switched sides last minute or that he'd killed his aunt Bellatrix, or that he'd been saved by Harry fucking Potter. It didn't matter shit to them. All they cared about was that he was a Malfoy. Malfoys didn't change.

Except he had changed, or at least that's what Granger had argued at his trial. He had changed as they'd seen when he'd killed the Death Eater responsible for Potter's torture. He had even switched sides, for Christ's sake, she'd said. Wasn't that enough for them? Apparently arguing with war hero and Golden Girl, not to mention Brightest Witch of her Age, Hermione Granger had been too much for the Wizengamot, because it _was_ enough for them and Draco was released. And now here he was, living with the only person who believed him to be different. It was still hard for him to fully understand how he'd landed here, even two months in.

'Still,' he found himself saying slowly. 'You're alive. You have a house and a job.' He watched her change expression.

'And those things guarantee happiness, don't they?' she said, though not scathingly. She posed an honest question. As though she feared the answer because she was experiencing the exact opposite. Suddenly she was a child, small and oblivious and helpless. Suddenly she needed the reassurance he felt only he could provide right now.

'Apparently,' he muttered. He cleared his throat and looked her right in the eye. It seemed like the right thing to do.

'So I'm just a chink in the chain.' She showed the slightest hint of a smile again, but it reflected a self-pity Draco only knew too well.

'Or you're being realistic,' he sneered, not fully knowing who he was defending. 'You can't be happy just because you have a house and job, it's unfair to those who're homeless or jobless. Retired, even.'

'You shouldn't _have to be_ happy,' she corrected. 'If that's what makes you happy then go for it. But it shouldn't dictate for you to feel one way and one way only.'

'Fair enough.' He stood up and placed the bowl in the sink. He moved towards his room then looked back at her. In the soft kitchen light she looked back at him, her hair unruly and her dark eyes exhausted. She raised her chin slightly. 'You're not the chink in the chain, Granger. Just go to bed.'

Then he shut himself in his room and tried hard not to look out the window.

/


	5. 6 months ago

thank you all for the lovely reviews!

DISCLAIMER: never will be mine, sadly :)

* * *

He stumbled into the bathroom with every intent of vomiting his fucking guts out until the lights behind his eyes went out and he smashed his head against the toilet seat. In fact, he looked forward to it. Anything to avoid the burning eyes of Lord Voldemort from the other side of the window burning into the skin on the inside of his arms.

He slammed the door open and squinted in the dark.

He found it was already occupied.

Granger was standing at the sink staring at the mirror. She was bleeding from her chin and crying silently. She blinked at his reflection but did not otherwise react.

'Are you _crying_?' he slurred.

She raised her chin defiantly, as though daring him to question her. The blood from her chin dripped onto the rim of the sink. 'Are you drunk?' she said. Honestly, it barely sounded like a question to him.

'N-no. _Fuck_ , Granger, you're alw-always _asking questions_. Do you ev-ver shut up?' He felt the vomit rising in his throat. Fuck it, if she wasn't going to move, he was simply going to vomit on her.

'What do you want?' She was still addressing his reflection.

'Just l-let me ha-have the fucking bathroom.'

There was something rather eerie about having her ghostly face stare at him through the mirror in the dark. He felt something heavy tighten in his chest, like he was realizing just how fucked he was. And for no reason. Really, he was fucked in general, and so was she. But the night, relentless and cold as always, did strange things to people, especially to him. It festered within him the fear of mortality, the inexplicable realization that the universe, so big and empty, could only care so much about his life that he was resigned to let his thoughts overwhelm him and strip him bare so that he was forced to face them, exposed and vulnerable with nowhere to hide. It was during the night where crying out for a sliver of mercy was acceptable and a blind eye was turned, and it was the night that disturbed him the most. The monsters come out to play when the world goes dark, and when the world goes dark Draco Malfoy was its unwilling witness and the unwilling watcher of the dance of the monsters, monsters hidden away in plain sight during the day.

'I hit my chin on the toilet bowl,' Granger was whispering, swallowing heavily and barely blinking. 'I was trying to vomit and I hit my chin. It's bleeding,' she added, more to herself, he supposed. 'It's bleeding.'

Now, Draco was pretty fucking drunk, but he was not stupid. 'Wh-why the f-fuck were _you_ vomiting?'

She continued to stare at him. He noticed she was barefoot and not wearing a robe over her shivering body. Then he noticed how cold it was in the bathroom. A shudder rippled down his spine, and the alarms in his head screamed how the window was open and the fucking cold was seeping through.

Slowly she blinked but did not turn to him. 'I felt sick.'

' _I_ feel sick, Granger. Let me stick m-my head in the fu-fucking toilet _bowl_ and empty m-my guts out. _Please_ ,' he added venomously. He felt he needed the threat of danger to move her out of the fucking way. He hoped it'd sounded venomous to _her_ , at least. To him his voice had sounded weak and desperate, like a child's. Christ, he _felt_ like a child.

For a moment, there was no movement from either of them. Hell, not that much movement would have been possible in the tiny bathroom, but nevertheless. Then Draco could not take it anymore. He ignored his conscience howling in humiliation. If Granger was going to be an uptight bitch he was not going to be held responsible for his actions. Throwing a glare at her, he bent to the right and vomited all over the floor.

His throat burning and his stomach weighing significantly less, he felt the weakness that comes after hurling one's guts out overwhelm him. He promptly fell to his knees and sat against the wall, away from his vomit. His head began to spin.

'Jesus, Malfoy,' he heard her mutter very faintly, as though from behind a glass pane.

'Fucking told you,' he managed to spit before closing his eyes.

Then he felt something warm next to him, and he looked to find Granger settling herself right next to him. Of all the places she could have chosen, she sat right next to him. Apparently the concept of privacy was no longer a recognized one in the household of the _Potter committee_. But fuck, maybe it was the fact that after vomiting one feels rather delirious, or the fact that the night makes saps of everyone, but he found that Granger smelled, well, _nice_. He couldn't quite put his finger on her scent, but it was something he'd known from his childhood, from the deepest, darkest corner of the Manor. The pounding in his head lessened slightly.

'Did you have a nightmare?' she asked suddenly, playing with her fingers.

He glanced at her carefully. In the dark, he could still make out her bloody chin. It annoyed him senseless. If someone has blood on their body, they should fucking wipe it. He'd known idiots who wore the blood from their wounds proudly, like medals or tattoos. And then he'd known those who had worn the blood from their wounds on their bodies because there was no need to wipe it off. War did that to you. Don't bother wiping blood off when you're going to be coated in it again in a few minutes. Don't bother bringing that corpse to safety; in a few minutes you'll have to do it again for another six.

In this case, Granger was neither an idiot nor fighting a war.

'You're still bleeding, you know,' he said, heavily hinting at how much that irritated him.

She did not respond, did not even reach up to touch or acknowledge her wound. ' _I_ had a nightmare.'

He grunted in reply. He did not want to encourage a conversation from her. Really, no. He was too weak, too exhausted from his attempts at hiding from windows and the searing, snake-like eyes of Lord Voldemort. The warmth radiating from her body proved to be a lulling effect on him, like a mother's presence after a frightening dream, and her scent was triggering old memories that still lurked at the back of his brain, seemingly forgotten. In short, he felt like he was going to fall asleep in a matter of minutes. And despite being tired and having his body desperately begging for sleep, he wanted anything but that.

'I was closed in a box, in the dark,' she was saying. 'I could hear Harry screaming.'

His conscience was still screeching, but he found himself straining his ears to hear more. Who knew, maybe hearing her talk could tune out his headache.

'Do you have nightmares?' she said again. She turned her head languidly to look at him.

'Don't we all,' he muttered.

'Bad ones?'

'Define _bad_ , Granger.' The exhaustion in his bones was dragging him down. He was drowning in himself.

She shrugged. Their shoulders rubbed softly against each other. He found the movement somewhat comforting. 'Do you wake up wishing you could cut your brain out?'

He snorted before he could stop himself, earning a boost to his headache. 'What? Why would I do _that_?'

'Your brain fabricates memories and memories fabricate dreams,' she sighed. 'Best remove the roots, right?'

He grimaced and closed his eyes. 'That sounds pretty fucking insane, Granger.'

'Do you?'

'Do I wake up wishing I could cut my fucking brain out?'

'Yes.'

He didn't think twice before speaking. 'All the fucking time.'

She blinked at him. Perhaps she hadn't expected such an affirmation from him. Perhaps she'd expected him to be different, because of his past, because of who he'd been for years. But here was the truth. He wasn't quite sure why he was talking to her about it, but he figured it had something to do with the night and being lonely. Because with the fear of mortality comes loneliness – hell, they go hand in hand. The biggest worry was death, but the biggest fear was dying alone. Maybe that was the main factor in this strange moment, sitting on the floor next to Granger bleeding from her chin, talking of their night terrors. Maybe he was just lonely. And being lonely with another person is perhaps one of the biggest possible comforts of human life. To him, at least.

'Malfoy,' she began thickly, then he heard her voice break. Fuck. Now he felt uncomfortable, no matter her warmth and scent. 'Do you feel like – like you're stuck in a r-routine?'

He squirmed. He really did not like crying. Not only because he'd heard so much of it during the war, he wanted to eliminate tear ducts forever, but also because he was shit at comforting. He was. He hated being responsible for cheering someone up. If he failed, he was to blame. 'A routine?' he said heavily, pressing a hand to his eye. The headache throbbed into his palm.

'In a cycle,' she sniffed. She began to sob harder. ' _Fuck_.'

This made him smirk. He'd never heard precious _Granger_ swear. She'd made a point not to swear in front of Potter. Like he was a baby or something. 'Granger, come on,' he said weakly.

' _Fuck_ , Malfoy, it just k-keeps go-going, you know?' She clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a loud sob. 'It's all a _fucking_ cycle, I c-can't seem – seem to _escape it_. _Christ_.'

Draco couldn't help but watch her as she cried. She looked dejected, humiliated, too, it seemed. Through his tiredness he felt like he was looking at her through the other end of a telescope, she looked so small. Maybe this was what the night did to her, too. He knew how badly the war had affected her, what with losing her parents and the Boy Who Lived getting fucked in the head, but she never let it show during the day, only during her fights with Weasley or when Potter frustrated her or simply made her cry. But she never mentioned the war, never let it affect her work or duties, never mentioned anything about unhappiness. And this really pissed Draco off. Because if this was what she was actually like, when she was stripped to the bone and exposed to the monsters of the night, God only knew how long she could keep her reality during the day in check. Because, fuck, if Granger couldn't hold it together, how the fuck could he?

Carefully so as not to encourage more sobs from her, he scrambled through his pockets, looking for his wand. He pointed it at the door to Weasley and Potter's room and cast a Silencing Charm on it. At least that way he wouldn't have to deal with the Weasel. One whiny Gryffindor was enough.

Granger's sobs, meanwhile, had subsided, and she was left hiccoughing to herself. She was staring straight ahead, watching time and space merge in the darkness. The last tears were clinging to her dark lashes, glinting in the little light streaming from the street outside. The wound on her chin was now capped with a scab of dried blood, wet from her tears. It looked disgusting.

He made his next move without thinking. Slowly, Draco raised his hand and, cautiously, wiped the tears from her cheek.

He had expected her to freeze under his touch, had expected her to perhaps even lean in, he didn't know. He was so muddled, he had expected everything and, at the same time, nothing, to happen. So he wasn't all that surprised when Granger failed to react to his hand touching her face. It seemed, even, that she did not notice anything different. Like she had forgotten the sensation of skin on skin. She kept her gaze fixed on the wall across them, breathing slowly. He was invisible to her.

Draco decided to use her lack of response to his advantage. Through half-lidded eyes he watched as he let his fingers travel down her jaw to her chin. He hesitated, then, gently as a curious child, ran his thumb across the scab. It felt simultaneously rough and soft against his skin, and a discreet shudder ran through his body. He couldn't very well rub the scab off, so he simply rested his thumb on it and let his other fingers graze her jaw very lightly. He did so for a few moments, taking in the softness of her damp skin with drunken wonder.

Granger still would not acknowledge his hand on her cheek. He frowned slightly. What kind of stupor was she in? Jesus, what kind of shit was she going through to allow him, Draco fucking Malfoy, to touch her the way he was? _Fuck_. He let his hand fall limply back into place. The headache he had forgotten came back knocking, and he silently realized he was too weak to get up and return to his room. He was also shocked by how comfortable the wall was against his back and the carpet under his legs. Maybe he could fall asleep here, he thought drowsily. Maybe he could not be lonely in his room by staying here. _With her_ , he added quietly before he could stop himself.

So he let his eyes slide shut, a warm blanket of relief spreading across his shoulders down his back, settling in his legs and arms, warning his body that he was not going to move any further. Then he felt something heavy settle on his shoulder. He vaguely registered something itchy and bushy brushing against his neck and ears. _What the hell_?

But Draco did not have to strength to open his eyes again to see Granger's head on his shoulder, her eyes closed as well, breathing softly. All he could feel was the warmth from before and the scent growing stronger, overpowering the pounding in his head.

He could have sworn she reached for his hand before his mind plunged into darkness.

/

To say that Ron was surprised to see Malfoy and Hermione sprawled on the floor against the wall, heads propped against each other, snoring quietly, was an understatement. He felt something he would have normally labeled as jealousy, but something inside him chastised him, whispering that _jealousy_ was not the right word. Perhaps what he felt was more of a sadness that he hadn't been there for Hermione in what had clearly been a moment of need (he'd found blood and dried vomit on the floor).

Ron considered it. He found that he _wasn't_ jealous that Malfoy had gotten there first, but a wave of unhappiness overtook him when he came to the conclusion that there was something in Hermione that needed saving, or at least something that needed the comfort of a savior, an understanding companion. And somehow, Ron knew that the person she needed could not be him. Now, the person could have been Malfoy or it could have been someone else, but Ron knew he could not force himself to play a part he could never play well. Not with Hermione. It was a stumping realization, one that hurt to acknowledge, but seeing them sleeping peacefully side by side he knew he was right.

Ron regarded his roommates in silent, sad resignation. Noticing the close proximity of their respective hands and deciding to ignore it, he set about preparing Harry's breakfast.

/

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	6. 5 months ago

'Harry, stop playing with your food.'

'Harry, mate, look, eat it like this.'

'For Christ's sake, Weasley, I don't need to see that.'

'Shut up, _Draco_ , it's for Harry, not you.'

'If it _was_ for me I think I'd have cardiac arrest and fall into a coma.'

'Or fall dead.'

' _Ron!_ '

'Hermione, you can't seriously be defending him!'

They were at the dinner table. It was fifteen past six and Harry was refusing to eat. He was staring into space, twirling and wading his fork through his mashed potatoes. Draco watched him through wary yet curious eyes. He wondered, time and time again, just how touched in the head Potter could be. He was continuously reminded of the Longbottoms, Alice and Frank or whatever, tortured into insanity by his equally insane aunt. He remembered seeing them once at St. Mungo's when his mother had forced him to see his grandfather right before he died of Dragon Pox. It had not been a pleasant experience. Not that Draco had known they'd been tortured, much less by his own aunt. It was uncomfortable, walking through the ward, seeing two nearly soul-less bodies lying in bed, drooling, mumbling incoherently like parrots. Even as a little boy, he'd known it was not normal.

'I am not defending anyone!' Granger said hotly, looking between the two. 'I just want you to watch your mouth when you're in front of Harry.'

'Yeah, Weasley, watch your –'

'That goes for you too, Malfoy, don't be cheeky.'

Granger, he noted, was not in a good mood today. Not that it was the first time, but ever since the drunken night he'd spent on the floor with her bushy head on his shoulder, he couldn't help but notice smaller details about her. He knew she didn't sleep well in general, but after her sleepy and his drunken ramblings (most of which he remembered with disturbing clearness) he knew why.

'Harry,' she was saying now, ' _please_ eat your potatoes. You need them to grow and be strong. Don't you want that?'

Draco watched Potter look at Granger with strange eyes. He had shoved his glasses way up against his face, so that it looked like the lenses were actually his eyes. He did not seem to have understood Granger at all, or maybe he had but was choosing to ignore her, because he completely disregarded his fork and would not look at his plate. He kept his intense, child-like gaze on Granger. She, meanwhile, was tearing up and her bottom lip was quivering. She pushed her own plate away and carefully wiped under her eyes as though to be sure no tear had fallen yet. Draco could not fathom why she would be crying over Potter refusing to eat his vegetables, but decided against speaking his mind.

'Harry, _please_ ,' she begged.

'No.' The word had come out quietly, as an actual child would have said it, but to Granger it seemed like the breaking point. She began to cry openly. She covered her face with her hands and began to sob into them, the tears leaking from between her fingers. Draco could only watch, torn between bemusement and irritation, while Weasley was already on his feet, taking Potter with him.

'Where are you taking him?' asked Draco tiredly, silently adding if he could go with them.

'Our room. He really shouldn't see her like this,' replied Weasley, guiding Potter towards their room.

'Ron, why is Herm-eye-own-knee _crying_?'

'She's upset, you red-haired dung beetle,' said Draco through gritted teeth, astounded at how a person could be this thick.

'I still don't want Harry to see that.' Weasley closed the door to his room behind him, and Harry's question hung unanswered in the sticky air that remained above the table where Granger was weeping and Draco was wishing he could have a Firewhisky and the energy to hex the weasel for leaving him alone with the mess that was Granger.

'Granger,' he said weakly, but he found he could not think of anything to say. Nothing, he imagined, could stop her crying. Nothing, he concluded, could end sadness that easily. If an overpowering emotion could be halted by the utterance of a mere word, the world's problems would be solved in a matter of minutes, honestly.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered, pushing her hair back and holding her face in her hands. Her cheeks and eyelashes were glazed with tears and were turning a very bright pink. She sniffed. 'He just makes me cry sometimes.'

'Which one?' he said, and she let out a watery chuckle.

'Harry, though I'm sure you know he's not the only one.' She showed him the ghost of a sad smile.

He nodded distractedly. Living in the same house as Granger and Weasley, Draco had become accustomed to their frequent arguments which usually ended with Weasley storming out and Granger bursting into angry tears and locking herself in her room. Draco didn't like their fights. Not in the way a scared child didn't like his parents' fights that would lead to an inevitable divorce. Rather, he found fights a disturbance to the peace that was supposed to be a necessity in the household of a mentally incapacitated man. Now, Draco did not know much about children, but he had been watching Potter closely over the last five months and noticed a distinct change in behavior when the Granger-Weasley fights were on. As soon as a voice was raised, even slightly, Potter would scrunch up his eyes and begin to twitch horridly. First his fingers would spasm almost mechanically, then his arms, then his upper body, until his glasses ended up being jostled to the tip of his nose and in danger of falling off his face. Then either the shouting from the bickering Gryffindors had to stop immediately, or Potter would collapse in a rage of twitching and convulsing and drooling, reminding Draco forcefully of a violent _Cruciatus_ session.

And it was this that left Draco disturbed and uncomfortable during the Granger-Weasley fights. The yelling and anger projected by the two flat mates was so overwhelmingly familiar to both Draco and Potter that Potter even misinterpreted it as another session of _Cruciatus_ on him and reacted to it in the same way. And Draco could only watch as Potter's face turned demented and his legs bent at awkward angles on the carpeted floor while Granger and Weasley had matches of who could scream the loudest in the adjacent room. Only Granger could calm Potter in one of his fits, but naturally it was rather difficult to yell and calm the boy at the same time, so it would fall to Draco to try and comfort him, who of course did not understand how to. So it ended with Potter having something similar to a seizure, Granger crying, Weasley storming out to the nearest pub, and Draco wanting to blast his fucking brains out.

Today was not one of those days, thankfully. He wasn't the only one who had recognized Potter's reactions to the fights. Granger had noticed too, over time, and tried to diminish her fights with Weasley, at least in volume. Weasley, the stubborn fool, tried, too, but never managed beyond the second accusation or insult. Nonetheless, Weasley had no trouble knowing when it was time to move Potter away from Granger to avoid a fit. Ironically, this made Granger cry even more.

She was still sniffling, pushing her green beans around in her plate, one hand holding her head. She was pushing her palm into her eye, something Draco did too, sometimes, just to feel the deep pain that left him lightheaded and tired. It made it easier to fall asleep. Sometimes.

Not wanting to look like an idiot – they already had Weasley for that – Draco stood up and levitated the plates from the table. 'You finished, Granger?'

She lifted her eyes slightly to look at him. 'You're cleaning up?' She said this with a touch of surprise, but it sounded polite, not as though she were suspicious or skeptical of his actions.

'No, I'm going to tango with these plates,' he said dryly. 'I've been searching for a new dance partner for _ages_.'

To his surprise, she let out a watery giggle. 'Malfoy, you're a laugh.'

'Tell me something I don't know,' he replied, theatrically swishing his hands about in a flamboyant way, the way his mother used to do. This elicited another snort of laughter from her. He did not know why, but there was something about her laugh that made him want to hear more. He knew he enjoyed making her laugh. It wasn't terribly hard to do especially after her fights with the red-haired fucktruck. He supposed he liked making her laugh because when she laughed, he didn't have to be bothered with risks of Potter's seizures and his own flashbacks of his personal encounters with an Unforgivable. It was a breath of normality in their lives, in their household. It was the key to a moment of tension-free tranquility.

Granger was now laughing out right, shaking her head, eyes closed, as though she were in disbelief of his silliness, and he stopped and felt something stir within his chest. It felt strange, like a warming spell had been cast on him, or a warm hand was holding him on the inside of his neck. It wasn't that he was unfamiliar with laughter. Contrary to popular belief, he had experienced laughter and fun in his childhood, perhaps not in the normal sense but he'd had fun times nonetheless. And he heard Granger or Weasley laughing with Potter nearly every day, so it wasn't something abnormal for Draco to hear. But none of those times elicited such a strange reaction from him than Granger's laugh. Something about it was different and he knew it, but he couldn't tell why. It bothered him. And yet.

'What _are_ you looking at?'

Draco blinked. He had not realized he'd been staring. Stupid, really. Stupid idiot. 'You, obviously,' he said quickly. 'Your beaver teeth stick out when you laugh.' _Nice save_ , he thought. 'It's not very attractive, you know.'

That shut her up. She snapped her mouth shut and stuck her tongue out at him. 'Bastard.'

He smirked and let the plates fall into the sink. He magicked the faucet to open and the plates began to wash themselves under the streaming water.

'Draco, can I ask you something?'

He turned back to her, one eyebrow raised.

She leaned back in her chair and seemed to be studying him. 'That night we spent on the floor.'

 _Fuck_ , she was going to bring that up. It made him nervous all of a sudden. He did not like where this was going. It happened one month ago. He'd almost forgotten about it. Almost. Why was she bringing this up now? What was wrong with her? 'I was drunk,' he said shortly. 'Drunk and exhausted and I had just vomited. I –'

'It's fine,' she cut in. She wore a pained expression, like the entire incident was eating her from the inside and she was forcing herself to talk to him about it. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to see it.'

 _See what?_ He opened his mouth to ask but she was faster. 'I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And it won't happen again.'

He didn't know how to respond to that. She looked ashamed. Her cheeks were tinged pink and she had fixed her gaze on his shoulder. He didn't know what to say. 'Alright.' Then, because he couldn't help himself, he thought of her head on his shoulder and their fingers weaved together. He could hear her sobbing somewhere in his mind, as reverberating as a muggle ambulance, and he remembered her words. He shuddered and allowed her words to echo in his ears to bring forth a question. 'Do you regret it?'

She blinked at him, confused. 'Regret what?'

He shrugged. 'What you said that night. Do you regret Potter and living here. The cycle.'

Granger's expression did not falter, or at least he didn't see it change at all. Maybe he hadn't struck as deep a nerve as he thought he would. Maybe she didn't remember the night at all, at least not the details. Or maybe he was reading too much into it. He had, truth be told, not stopped thinking about the night since it happened. 'No, I don't,' she said. There was a hint of urgency in her voice, the kind of urgency that hides beneath the words of a conversation that needed to end as soon as possible. 'I regret saying those things. Nothing else.' Then she opened her mouth again as if to add something, but at the last second thought better of it and stayed silent. She was looking at him oddly through her blood-shot, puffy eyes. Her head was now cocked a little to the side, resembling a curious child during a game of hide-and-seek. She remained frozen like that, scrutinizing him. He felt, to say the least, slightly exposed. Then she took a breath and got up.

'I have to work,' she said, and left the room, leaving Draco puzzled at the way she'd been looking at him.

/

He was drunk again. The conversation after dinner with Granger had left him irritable and confused, and when he was irritable and confused he drank. He didn't understand why she'd thought bringing that night up would be a good idea. For no fucking reason at all, just remembering her emotionless face and voice made him depressed as hell. He had no fucking clue why. Especially right after he'd made her laugh she became sad and gloomy again. It drove him mad. He thought back to the night on the floor and everything came back to him with a sudden vivid clarity. The routine and cycle she was stuck in, surely if it made her so miserable she had to vomit her guts out and spend the night sleeping on the floor next to him, she had to regret choosing this life. Surely it still made her miserable. Surely, he decided in his blurry mind as he drained the last dregs of Ogden's Old Firewhisky, she'd lied to him.

It made him depressed as hell.

He was on the floor leaning against his wardrobe. It was pretty cramped, to be honest. His knees were at his chest because there was only so much space, and he was cradling the (now empty) bottle in his lap. The pounding in his head was back, the same after every hard drink he had, and he began to see little lights behind his eyelids. Brilliant. Oh how he loved being drunk. He loved the lulling headaches, the little lights instead of Voldemort's ugly face, the sound of Granger crying, the – _wait, what?_

He craned his neck and in the dark heard some distinct crying. _What the fuck?_ Jesus. This woman never seemed to stop crying. Surely she should have run out of tears by now. Draco groaned loudly, hoping she would hear it and take the hint. She didn't. Her sobs actually grew louder. _Christ's sake_.

Maybe he should go see what the matter was. Maybe this was the chance for him to sock one in Weasley's face. _God_ , he hated the red-haired naked mole rat. He laughed to himself. Jesus, yes, naked mole rat. That was fucking funny. It's neither a mole nor a rat and it's _naked_ too! He laughed a little more until he felt the tears gathering. Alright, enough now. Someone – _Granger_ – was crying. He had to do something. Right? It was only polite.

He stumbled to his feet and immediately regretted it. The pounding now had a sound, like a marching drum, and it was out of rhythm with his heart which he thought rather infuriating. _THUMP tha-thump THUMP tha-thump THUMP tha-thump_. The bottle, which he had forgotten about, fell onto his foot and rolled away under his bed. He stifled a cry of pain (the bottle was old and heavy, alright?) and hobbled to the door, swaying as he did so. The floor looked so close, Jesus. Had he shrunk? That would have been funny. Although how could he fuck good-looking women if he was the size of a goblin? Christ.

He wrenched the door open and promptly fell against his bed, though miraculously he maintained his balance. Take that, door, he thought triumphantly. He took a step. Then another. Then he tripped on the carpet and fell on his face.

Well.

He pushed himself up again, muttering darkly. If he had his wand on him… He eyed her door. Closed, obviously. Then why could he hear her crying so clearly, as though she were right next to him? What the fuck kind of sick magic was that? He glanced at the door to Weasley and Potter's room and wondered why the red-haired mole rat hadn't come running out yet. Then Draco realized he didn't particularly care as he leaned in and pressed his ear against the wood. Yep, she was crying. A lot. Jesus.

'Granger,' he whispered drunkenly. No reply. He rapped his knuckles against the door. 'Granger.' Still nothing. Still, he noted the sobbing had subsided. ' _Granger?_ '

'What?' came a muffled, annoyed response from the other side.

He thought for a second. 'Are you crying?'

'Go away, Draco.'

'Don't tell me what to do,' he said, hoping to sound angry. He didn't.

'Go _away_.'

'I will when you stop that infernal noise,' he said.

'I want to cry in peace, go away.' She proceeded to cry again. He growled.

'Granger!' he hissed, grabbing the door handle. With one twist the door opened to reveal her sitting under her window in the darkness, holding onto a pillow. Her hair was a mess (not that that was anything new), her floor covered in tissues, and the window wide open. He shivered furiously, and sobriety came to him as a gush of cold wind. What the fuck was going on here?

'Malfoy, get out of my room!' She had the pillow ready to throw at him, but a powerful sob that racked her whole body interrupted her and she instead clutched it to her chest as she cried.

'Jesus, Granger,' he muttered. He noticed her wand on the floor by his feet. Had she thrown it across the room? Was her crying, and this thought would come to him later, connected with their talk at dinner?

'I c-can't s-stop, okay?' she gasped out. 'I j-just c-can't. _Jesus._ F-fuck o-off, Draco. Go _away_.'

Now, the Malfoys had a set of rules. Unspoken rules, but rules nonetheless. The first rule was, a Malfoy is always superior. He had learned that that was, in fact, utter bullshit, so never mind that one. The second rule was, it is a Malfoy's duty to be the better person. Now, he wasn't really sure whether the second rule existed to support the first – useless – rule, but his mother had always stressed it when he was a little boy. _Pettiness can go a long way_ , she'd say, _but being greater can bring you farther away and twice as fast._ Granted, he hadn't really listened to her, but now that he was older he realized just how right she was. Being petty kept you rooted in the same spot. Being the better person lifted you and brought you far away from it. Which was the whole point, really.

So this was him proving the second rule. He had spent his whole life being petty. This was a tribute to his dead mother.

'Come on, Granger,' he said tiredly, moving closer to her bed. 'Let's get you back to bed.'

'I,' she choked, looking at him with terrified eyes, 'I can't –'

'Yes,' he said firmly, not really sure what she'd meant to say, 'you can. I'll help you.' He grabbed her upper arm and clumsily lifted her to her feet. He swayed dangerously as she let her weight lean against his drunk body but gritted his teeth and kept his balance. He guided her to the bed and slowly deposited her onto the mattress. She began to shake.

'I- I can't,' she repeated in a whisper, her eyes still wide, like specters in the dark. 'He- he's not – not,' she swallowed and left her words hanging. She looked at the open door. Draco could have groaned again. She was scared for Potter. Of course.

'Granger,' he said, trying hard not to sound _too_ irritated, 'Potter's fine. He's _fine_.'

She squirmed away as he attempted to pull the blankets over her. Then, as though through a change of heart, she stayed still and scrambled for his hand. When she found it she latched onto it. He shuddered; her fingers were icy as hell. 'Stay,' she whispered, still looking at him with an expression that added to the cold he was already feeling.

'No,' he said, wondering if it were ethical to douse her in Firewhisky and hope she would get drunk from the fumes and pass out.

'Stay,' she said again, a little louder. She tugged at his hand.

He wondered what the chances were that she had fallen asleep again and was now sleep talking, given the raw emotion she was showing him. Not that he'd never seen her cry or yearn for comfort. But he'd never thought of her as one needing the company of another person in order to sleep well. He watched her closely, as closely as a drunk man could in a dark room. Indeed, she had that glazed look in her eye, a sort of resignation one had when they were dreaming. She seemed to be moving and breathing as though in a daze, and her glassy eyes kept darting around the room, seemingly following an unknown entity only she could see. It was, if anything, disturbingly similar to Potter's every day actions, and his heart sank a little at the thought. What the fuck would he do if Granger turned out to be as insane as the Boy Who Lived But Still Managed To Get Fucked In The Head? Draco could not have that. Not because he was a good person. It was all for purely selfish reasons. Draco could not live with two unstable people. Besides, Hermione Granger deserved better.

He decided to take a leap of faith. This was him proving the second Malfoy rule again. Just compensation for the shitty first rule. Because if there was something he would do, it was save Hermione Granger from the same fate as Harry fucking Potter.

'Fine,' he growled, jerking his hand out of her grasp. 'Move your fat arse, you big baby.'

Ignoring his remark, she inched to the side. With a sigh that was also a yawn, he got in and pulled the covers over himself. In the tiny bed he could feel her warmth next to him, despite the cold draft coming from the open window. Their arms were touching and he was sure that if she turned on her side, her chin would basically be on his shoulder, by his neck. He decided not to dwell on it and let his eyes drift shut.

'Malfoy,' she whispered. He grunted in response. His brain was muddled and he was too lazy to open one eye again. Besides, his headache had miraculously quieted down. 'Could you close the window?'

'Get up and close it yourself.'

'You're closer to it.'

'I'm asleep.'

'No you're not.'

He huffed. 'Fuck you, Granger. I mean it.'

'Draco.' God, he hated hearing her say his first name. He didn't know _why_ but his brain was telling him he hated it. Maybe he ought to listen to it sometime.

' _Fine_. If it'll get you to shut the fuck up and go to sleep,' he snapped. Without opening his eyes, he waded through the incoming fog of sleep and drunkenness and blindly shoved the window shut. It closed with a soft _click_ and he waded back to bed.

'Thanks,' she said. There was a moment of sweet silence wherein the fog enveloped him like a comforting hug. But a tiny detail was nagging him and eating at his thoughts like termites, and the fog left him again.

'Granger.'

'Yes?'

'Did you throw your wand across the room?' He thought of it lying by the door as though a dog had been playing with it and then left it for something more interesting. She did not answer immediately. 'Well?'

'Yes,' she whispered.

'Why?'

'Does it matter?' she asked heavily.

'Why else would I be asking, do you think?' he said, annoyed. She asked too many questions. Stubborn bint.

'Leave it alone, Draco.'

'No.'

'Goodnight, Malfoy.' As though that settled it, she turned away from him.

'Granger, for fuck's sake,' he began, but felt it was useless to fight her about it. He was in no mood to argue, especially given the state he was in and the fact that they were sharing a bed. Then he remembered the second Malfoy rule, and let it go. _This is for you, Mother_ , he thought bitterly. The fog returned and engulfed him in a befuddling stream of dreams and what felt like reality, of images of his mother charming flowers in the Manor's gardens, and Granger's hand closing around his own, their fingers interlacing and their warmth mixing.

/

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